


Lost Ones

by qgmon



Category: Vis a Vis | Locked In (Spain TV)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, are those... feelings?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qgmon/pseuds/qgmon
Summary: Perhaps first times are clumsy. Perhaps that needs to be rectified.It will be the second and last time they do this.(It isn’t.)•••Post - van scene in 5x07. There might be some... feelings involved, too.
Relationships: Zulema Zahir/Macarena Ferreiro
Comments: 88
Kudos: 149





	1. how it starts:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to Lost Ones by Kaash Paige a lot at the same time as watching El Oasis and suddenly... this happened.
> 
> Well, what do you know. Here goes.

_ It makes sense you were so clumsy. It was your first time. _

It doesn’t happen instantly. You pour out the tea she made you - that’ll show her - and give yourself time. One, two, three minutes, perhaps. You make sure you are not acting on impulse just because she said something that might’ve hit a nerve. Maybe. 

_ Puta rubia. _

Five minutes pass and that’s plenty of time to think about your actions, to consider what you’re about to do. Not impulsive at all.

You walk to the caravan and hear her soft humming from the outside. She does that every time she showers, despite your annoyance and countless threats to shut her up. She can’t help it, she says. 

You leave your shoes by the entrance and walk into the small space, shutting the caravan closed and swinging the shower door open. She turns immediately, brows furrowed and mouth open to shout, but-... she looks at you looking at her. You don’t have to say anything - she knows. 

The two of you have developed a bond unlike any other you’ve had before. It’s almost telepathic, how well you know her and, as much as you hate to admit it, how well she knows you now, too. One look, one shrug, the tone of your voice just slightly off and she notices. You hated it at first. You only dislike it now. 

That’s progress.

She remains quiet. You don’t bother taking your clothes off; moving forward towards her as she takes a step back, giving you space, you reach for the nape of her neck and give her a final push. Back against tiles, breathing hot and heavy - she’s waiting. An invitation.  Warm water is pouring down your body, soaking everything in its wake. You’re very wet and she is naked. Slippery. Her mouth opens to talk and you shut whatever was about to come out with yours.

It’s all teeth and tongue once you crash your body into hers, biting at her bottom lip every time she tries to gain control. She gets it - such a quick learner - and lets go. The look on her face makes your heart ache a little and you suddenly feel like you’re burning inside.

Your lips meet her neck and you bite her a lot. Tongue sliding down to her collarbones, making its way to her nipples and you’re sure you're doing _something_ right as the sounds from above have become nothing short of sinful. You grin. Clumsy, huh?

You find yourself on your knees all of a sudden, grabbing her thighs and pulling her closer. Her leg over your shoulder, you look up and she’s staring. Waiting.

You taste her. She moans.

If you thought you had it all planned out - you were wrong. Everything turns into a blur within moments. Mouth on her, you work your tongue up and down and _in_. And out. You keep going and going like it’s the only thing you know how to do now, gripping her tighter as you feel her legs starting to shake. She’s close. You’ll keep her up like her life depends on it.

She takes over each and every one of your senses and suddenly plummets, and you’re not sure if it’s her or the water pouring into your mouth that you’re drowning in.

Your senses kick in;  You shoot back up and turn her around, face to the wall. She’s gasping for air and she’s more than ready when you reach your hand down and enter. She’s dripping down your fingers as you pump in and out, biting the back of her neck and her shoulders, listening to her moans getting louder and louder by the second. Her legs are failing but you keep her in place. She can’t stand anymore - _she’s so close_ \- she tells you.

“Come, rubia.” 

She falls and you catch her.

•••

You stay on the floor for a while. 

You never bother turning the shower off. There’s something cathartic about the way hot water is pouring down your whole body, cleansing that feeling that’s gnawing at you, somewhere deep deep down inside. It needs to fuck off, really.

Your clothes are long gone and both of you need an actual shower, but neither of you moves. She says she can’t even stand up yet, anyways. You give her time to regain herself. 

“We’re done now,” you tell her and she agrees.

This will be the second and last time you do this.

•••

It isn’t.

•••

You move from shower to kitchen, from kitchen to bed and then all the way up to the caravan’s roof from there. Neither of you says a word the whole time but who needs a conversation? You communicate in sounds now - gasping, screaming, swearing and more and _moreandmore_. Voices occupied by soft moans as you touch every bit of each other. Skin on skin, fingertips brushing, inspecting the surface like a crime scene.

She touches your face a lot. That’s a thing now. 

You end up learning her every curve, memorising each mark and every little scar. Kissing and licking and biting. She has a few - some you might even recognise, might even be able to place how she got them. You don’t really care about the _why_ and the _how_ , though. All that matters is that they’re a part of her now. She’s carrying them and you’re the one claiming them; _Yours_.

You leave enough marks of your own, too. You hope she memorises them.

•••

You’re sat on the roof, looking up at the sky as you take another drag of your cigarette. You’ll focus on anything - the moon and the stars, the subtle sounds of the desert and the heat of the smoke in your lungs if that means you don’t have to look to your left, where she’s currently sprawled out on her chair, naked apart from that T-shirt she decided to steal. _Your T-shirt_. 

"Zulema-" she murmurs.

You can feel her stare burning into your skin. You’re actively ignoring it. 

“I’m going to sleep.” 

“Okay.”

She’s standing up, slowly, eyes still on you. You give in and meet her gaze.

“Que?”

“Sometimes I think we're the lost ones.” 

“ _Que?_ ” you repeat.

“All of us, at Cruz. We were the lost ones. The souls people talk about, the ones that lost their way. Ones without meaning.”

You sigh.

“And? What does that mean, rubia?”

“Nothing,” she shrugs, “I’m just thinking about it. How despite being lost, we still found each other.”

You don’t know what it is, but you feel _something_. It's tight. There’s a lump in your throat that you need to get rid of but _can't_. 

So you stay silent.

“With you... I don’t feel as lost anymore.”

She smiles and walks away. You take another drag of your cigarette.

•••

You can hear soft snores and heavy breathing within minutes. The tightness in your chest makes a comeback. 

You wonder if she fell asleep in your T-shirt. 

•••

“Congratulations! You’ve officially gone fucking mad.”

She’s back again, sat in Maca’s chair, staring. Mocking.

Her yellow jumpsuit is glaring at you, so painfully bright it almost gives you a headache. How did you manage to wear that for so long?  _She’s just a hallucination_ , you have to keep telling yourself, but her presence feels more real than that tumour inside your head.  Zulema Zahir, in all her glory. Strong, angry, ready to rip your throat open and spit your blood out. 

She’s _you_ , but she isn’t. She thinks she’s better than you. Part of you probably does, too.

“Have you lost your shit completely, seriously?” she scoffs at you, “ _Her?_ Joder.”

“Fuck off.”

She laughs at you and you feel your insides starting to burn. The heat is clawing at your fingertips and you're getting ready to throw yourself at her, fists first. Wrap your hands around her throat - _your throat_ \- and squeeze. Be done with it once and for all.

“ _La puta rubia_. Huh. Here I thought cancer was your main issue...” she leans in closer; you can feel your own breath on your face - are you really just imagining her?

“Turns out rubia is the real tumour here.”

“¡Vete! Vete a la mierda!”

You grab whatever you can launch at her, hitting a face that doesn’t exist. You keep throwing things - empty bottles, a cup you never brought back down after _she_ made you tea, a rock that somehow ended up in your hand. It doesn’t help. You scream in frustration and she laughs in response.

“Look what you’ve become. You’re fucking soft!” she spits at you, “You might think you’re alive but _Zulema_ died when you took on the blonde. You’re lost. Finished.”

_ The lost one. _

You want to reply; say something cruel but she fades away, even as her mocking laugh persists.

You can’t help but think she’s right.

•••

You enter the caravan just before sunrise. You tried sleeping but couldn’t, mind painfully quiet and loud with intensity at the same time. Everything feels so tight it hurts.

Quietly, you move towards the bed. Maybe if you just lie down, this will all go away.

It’s occupied.  She’s still sleeping; lying on her side, her back to you. Wearing your T-shirt.

_ Puta rubia. _

You hate her. She did this to you. Made this caravan feel _almost_ like home. Made you _want_ more. Made you _soft._ You sigh. 

Prison Zulema was right - you are lost. But Maca was right, too. You don’t feel as lost when you’re with her.

You lay down next to her and cover yourself with a blanket. You cover her, too.

You _hate_ her.

She radiates warmth. You move closer and swing your arm around her.

_No._ You don’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my life and I really need it after watching that VAV finale. 
> 
> x


	2. how it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, I guess there's another chapter. Here goes.

You don’t hallucinate when you’re fucking.

For a while, you tell yourself that’s the only reason why this— whatever it’s supposed to be, is still happening. You’re sick and you’re tired of those very unwelcome regular visits from your own personal ghost of Christmas fucking past. Or whatever it’s called. _El Elfo del Puto Infierno_.

For a while, you believe it.

•••

The two of you fall into— you wouldn’t call it a routine. It’s more of a series of ‘happenings’. She looks at you, you look at her, it happens. Your face between her thighs, your tongue deep inside, your name on the tip of hers, her taste on yours. Such blissful ignorance.

It’s easy to avoid that conversation you both know you should be having when you’re occupied at all times. Still, it’s gnawing at you because you _know_ , and it’s even worse when you know she feels it, too. She’s so shit at hiding it; it’s evident in the way she looks at you right after she comes, and even more so when her eyes meet your own whenever you’re the one falling over the edge and into her waiting mouth.

So you do the only thing you can - you stop looking at her. You avoid her when she speaks to you, turn away when the two of you fight. You even miss out on her piercing green gaze when you’re knuckles deep in her - up until she starts panting, breaths hot and heavy and so fucking loud you can’t help but grin. That’s when you drop every pretence and break your own rules, carefully watching the way her eyes roll back into her skull each time she comes. What’s the point otherwise?

•••

Most things remain unaffected. You still fight a lot, not more and not any less than before, and you’re sure you still have the upper hand. Usually.

You plan your heists carefully and execute them meticulously. You keep your promise of it being 50/50.

As always, you come back both tired and incredibly wired after every job, veins pumping with so much energy your heart could explode at any moment. You have your whiskey on the rocks, and she drinks whatever clear spirit she decides to get that night. The usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Some things - little things, insignificant things, things that don’t mean anything at all _thank you very much_ \- are different, though.

She’s a lot more relaxed around you now. She never tenses anymore, her smiles are more frequent and honest. She used to bare her teeth, trying to intimidate you with no avail. Now, she just smiles at you. When you speak, when she catches you staring - only for a moment. Whenever you catch her watching you. Soft and bright and painfully genuine.  
You don’t reciprocate, of course. Not when she can see it anyways.

You find her wearing your T-shirts again and again. You question it at first, threaten her in a ‘I won’t kill you but you should still be worried for your physical and mental well-being’ kind of way. At first, she lies and tells you she’s out of clean ones herself and _do you really want me to walk around topless all the time?_

You fuck her that night, half naked and panting.

After a while, she stops pretending. You stop being annoyed. She says she likes wearing your things, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. Like it’s just the simplest of facts.

You find that you like fucking her in them.

•••

She sleeps in your T-shirts every night now, too.

•••

You drag your nails down her spine, leaving angry red marks that accompany the bruises on her thighs so beautifully. She likes it when you bite and you love it when she gasps in response, pleading for more. Your fingers dance in circles between her legs and she digs her nails deep into your waist for support. You hiss and so she does it harder. Your rubia likes to live her life on the edge, you learn.

You grab her by the neck and shove your tongue down her throat. You’re the only thing she can inhale now - fuck oxygen. That’ll show her. She’s shaking, hands all over the place, and you press your fingers just that much harder until she comes.

She moans your name, raw and desperate, almost like a prayer. You swallow it with your mouth and push her over the edge again.

•••

One evening, you find her staring at the Polaroid she took that night, right after you awkwardly gave her the gift. God, what were you thinking? In hindsight, you should’ve known then. The two of you, staring at the camera. Her, semi-smiling. Semi-looking at you. You. Semi-uncomfortable.

When she finally falls asleep that night, you grab her camera and take a picture. She’s sprawled out in bed, her blonde hair framing that sharp jawline perfectly, making it look softer somehow. Peaceful, quiet. Very out of character for her.

You look at the developed shot for a moment (two, four, a whole minute) longer and shove it into your pocket. The inner pocket on the left side of your jacket.

Your heart beats faster at the contact.

•••

Something changes again and it’s her who stops looking at you now. She’s become more distant, her touches less frequent, somewhat uncertain. There’s a lump in your throat but you don’t say anything.

After one of your heists she says she wants out. That’s when you know - everything’s about to burn to the ground. 

You might as well go out with a bang.

•••

It’s harder to fuck when the whole gang’s around but you do it nevertheless. Sneaking, whispering, hands on mouths to keep each other from being too loud.

She tears up every now and again and it’s almost like she feels guilty for something. You have a feeling she’s about to sell you out; _joder_. You hope you’re wrong.

You know you’re not.

•••

You grab a fistful of her hair and drag her into the nearest bathroom, smashing her back into the door behind you. You _hate_ her.

"Fuck you, Zulema" she spits but it’s you who does the fucking instead.

It’s rough and sweaty and you’re so fucking angry because how dare she do this, after everything. _Puta rubia_.

You hold her by the neck, making her look you dead in the eye as she comes undone. In a dingy bathroom, courtesy of Hotel Oasis thank you very much, shortly after a disastrous bloodbath of a mission. There isn’t much pleasure in any of this and that’s exactly what she deserves. You tell her as much; she doesn’t respond.

Yet after all of that you still forgive her.

•••

She’s pregnant. You think about how funny it would be if it ended up being yours.

You never tell her that.

•••

The hallucinations come back in full force and you find yourself beating the shit out of the ghost of your prison days. She’s not changed at all since your last encounter - still just as mocking and goddamn fucking awful. It’s almost funny how much of a bitch you really are. Have you really been like that your whole damn life?

Perhaps you should try and not be as terrible to people; try being a bit nicer to Maca.

But then again, fuck her.

•••

In the end, you still try.

•••

You tell her the caravan is the closest thing you’ve ever had to home and she says that it’s been special for her too. You can’t look at her because you know the truth.

There is no escaping, not for you. You let her think you’re leaving this mess together still, and she believes it for now. You’re not worried, though. She’s got something to live for, something concrete. A person to share her life and create a home with.

She’s become _your_ home, as much as you hate it. As much as you'll never truly admit it. Before all of this, all you had to live for was your freedom, and even that’s been taken from you by that stupid thing in your brain. First prison, now cancer. Is this a comedy afterall?

You can’t have either of those things yourself anymore, but you can give both to her. So you do.

•••

Getting shot fucking hurts. The first two times, anyways. You can’t really feel the rest of them individually as pain is all there is now. You don’t know where your body starts and where it ends anymore - within seconds you become agony, personified.

These are your last breaths, you know that. It’s a fact; the desert is warmed by the tint of your blood and your body’s becoming increasingly colder. You are 70% liquid no longer.

The only spot that remains warm, no - it’s so hot it burns, is where the rectangle patch of your inner pocket falls on your chest. Bloody. Tainted. But no longer painful. Not since you realise that the photo - your photo of her - is there.

Macarena is right there with you, until the very end. 

_You’re not alone anymore._

You told her that and you did mean her child. You meant yourself, too. _I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life, rubita,_ you think. Your mind goes blank for a moment and then back to the photo resting right by your heart. _Puta rubia._

You hope she keeps her picture forever.

You hope she looks at it.

_You’re dying._

You hope she misses you already.

You do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my life better, hint hint.
> 
> I'm @qgmon on twitter if you wanna come cry with me.


End file.
